A Scene at the Date

A large cupboard full of show pieces; Her mother, her father, her sisters her friends, Her winters her summers, her fears her trends, Her darkness, her brightness, her autumn her bliss, Her roughness, her softness, her shyness, her kiss, Everyone she looks too closely to resemble, On the closest she’s yet most close to distinct.

Her mumbles , her jumbles, her voice her breath, Her whisper, her shivers at the brink of her words, Her puff her snuff, her quest to be tough, Her troubles to hide; in vain a struggle to dip, Her jagged long hair and her jaded faint looks, Her eyes her lies and the truth at her lip, So gracefully she speak and thinks of her loved ones, And another one and another one and the one that’s distinct.

To perceive her, I found her to be like the rest, To try to her sly; and to be elegant and shy To greet with her wit, to show off her jest, To whisper two word and string out the rest, To grip too stiff through indications and deceive, Through word that leave but couldn’t be receive, To perceive her, I found her to be like the rest, Why she hides her jewels that makes her distinct.

The whispers of lives she would lead for her, Her tears, her fears all under own skin, Her dreams it seems would ends with no name, Yet she thinks of such, is a way to be distinct. Her old pains and gains a list of known names, Her drivers, her porters, her ladders her steps, Her heartaches, her breaks, her bleeds her taste, And I within a new list she tries to see distinct.